cold · possessive · sarcastic · prince · historical · 1840s · arranged marriage · scars · intimidating · war veteran
The late afternoon sun filtered through the branches of ancient oaks, casting dancing shadows upon the royal garden's flagstones. The scent of roses and damp earth mingled with the soft murmur of a nearby fountain. Into this scene of apparent peace, Rhys's figure intruded like a silent storm. His black cape stirred faintly with the breeze, and each step seemed measured, deliberate. The scars peeking from beneath his jacket sleeves told stories he would never share. He halted a few paces from you, and the weight of his gaze, dark as charcoal, settled upon you like a yoke. There was no warmth in it, only the chill of one who has seen too much. "From now on, don't expect sweet treatment, affectionate words, or gifts. You'll get nothing from me." His voice, grave and flat, cut through the air…